Courting Life and Death in Mexico
I am drawn to the Mexican culture. It is magical — an alchemical mixture of Christian and pagan, bright flowers, and dancing skeletons. Our Lady of Guadalupe is memorialized on the tee shirts of Campesinos; she reigns over the land.
From the first moment I step onto Mexican soil, I intuitively understand the dance of life and death within this vibrant society. It is 1972 and I am glad to be spending my Christmas college break with Milagro’s family, a former exchange student to my Detroit hometown. A cage of parakeets rests on the balcony overlooking a small courtyard while an oil painting on the living room wall celebrates the Virgin Mary’s assumption into heaven, a beatific look on her face. The painting intrigues me — the passion out of sync with the quiet interior of the home. I am charmed by the deep colors of the adjoining rooms in shades of rose, aqua, and gold. On the second floor, I push open the bedroom shutters and breathe in all the scents so foreign to me — a mix of spices and exotic flowering trees.
Milagro’s handsome older brothers flatter me with their attention. Yet, it is her father, Antonio, who steals my heart. This infatuation grows daily as he teases and later challenges me with questions about my life. Each morning, standing outside the bedroom door, he pretends to wake us by playing taps, imitating the sound of a rusty old bugle.
Antonio’s parents lived through the Mexican Revolution of 1910, an event that stands as the first major political, social, and cultural revolution of the 20th century. Somewhere in my imagination, I fantasize that, even years later, he might have lived the life of an undercover revolutionary at some time in his career as a journalist.
During my visit, Antonio spends his days locked away in the room he calls his library. There he sits among the busts of German composers and his collection of sculptures — the sea creatures he refers to as his leviathans. Antonio is intelligent and kind with a sophisticated sense of humor that makes him alluring. There is something not quite right, however. I sense his unhappiness. I conclude that he is underestimated by those around him — a misunderstood sensitive, intellectual man. In my naivete I see myself inspiring him, becoming his muse.
It is a warm morning when we set out to catch a subway into the city. Our destination, the Prado Hotel, is an elaborate, baroque edifice housing Diego Rivera’s famous mural of Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park. Inside the cavernous building, it is cool. We climb massive stone steps to the second floor. There, amidst the flow of tourists and bellhops, stands the grand mural taking up an entire wall from floor to ceiling. Milagro smiles as I gasp out loud.
“You didn’t expect to see skeletons, did you?” she asks. Once again Mexican culture surprises and shocks me with its trickster element of blending life and death. I think of the truck we passed a few days earlier lying on its side near the highway with a body trapped beneath; just a set of broken legs emerging from the chaos.
My optimistic American sensibility is shaken once again as I view Rivera’s mural of aristocrats strolling through Alameda Park. The women bedecked in jewels and long gowns, the men in top hats and dinner jackets, appear proud and nonchalant while the skeleton of a woman in similar high society garb leads the parade. Antonio leans over to provide a commentary on the painting.
“This depicts the corruption of the wealthy class that controlled Mexican politics in the past,” he adds.
What happens next brings this horrific scene to life. The skeletons dressed in their finery begin to dance like the puppets I had seen in street theater. Next, the entire room begins to shake. It takes a few moments to realize we are experiencing an earthquake. Hordes of screaming people stream past us toward the massive stone stairway leading to the first floor. Panicked cries fill the air.
For some reason, we do not join them. Instead, Antonio beckons us to a nearby bench. It has been less than a week since the deadly earthquake in Nicaragua that killed thousands.
Frightened by the prospect of being trapped in the tomb of this old building, I look to Milagro and her father for reassurance. “As long as we roll back and forth, we should be safe,” he announces. “If the building begins to shake up and down, we will kiss our lives goodbye.”
This is a side of Antonio I have not seen. It is as if he has retreated to his library shutting out the world. I wonder if he believes his detached manner will calm us? Sitting in the middle of that cavernous room, head bent forward, he appears to be listening for clues rising from deep underground. Like King Lear, Antonio might be a brooding figure trapped in the fatal last scene of his life.
The veil of my infatuation lifts and I see him as a human, fallible person for the first time. My coveted position as a muse at the center of his life disappears. Perhaps it is the fear in my eyes that shakes him from his stoic reverie. Looking at me, he winks. The scene is changing. Good fortune has returned to smile on us. The room slowly stops rolling. While we hold our breath, it comes to a stop.
Two weeks later, the family runs late in getting me to the airport. The harried airline staff agree to ask the pilot to delay the flight until I board. At the last minute, I am inundated with gifts. A sombrero lands on my head, a poncho across my shoulders, and finally, like icing on the cake, a piñata is placed in my already laden arms. I hobble my way across the tarmac looking like the world’s most obnoxious American tourist.
Despite my utter humiliation, I feel myself smile as a handsome young steward greets me at the door to the plane. Maybe I am ready to look for a younger crush. The steward bows as I enter the cabin to uproarious applause from the waiting passengers.
